The Reeves family's first supper in Eastport was not a grand affair. It was a makeshift meal of scrambled eggs, toast slathered with Barbara Smith's jewel-red jam, and the single, perfect tomato from William Corbin's garden, sliced and arranged on a plate with a pinch of salt. They ate at the kitchen table, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, using paper towels for napkins.
But to Trisha, it felt like a feast. The nervous energy of the morning had melted away, replaced by the warm, comfortable buzz of shared experience. The kitchen was filled with the sound of their voices, tumbling over one another.
"...and then Sarah said that for the festival, they build this huge bonfire down on the beach," Amelia said, between bites of egg. "And everyone comes. Even the high school kids. It's, like, the one thing everyone does."
Mike, his mouth full of toast, signed excitedly to his father, his hands a blur. Elijah. Funny. Squid. Tentacles. He wiggled his fingers by his ears.
George laughed, a rich, full sound that seemed to fit perfectly in the small kitchen. "Sounds like a good first day, buddy." He turned to Trisha. "And you? How was the technological archaeology?"
Trisha shook her head, a wry smile on her face. "I produced five hundred words on a machine that I'm pretty sure is powered by steam and hope. And I saved it on this." She pulled the floppy disk from her pocket and set it on the table like a rare artifact.
Amelia picked it up, turning it over in her hands with a look of anthropological curiosity. "What even is this? A 3D-printed save icon?"
"It's called progress, sweetie," Trisha deadpanned. "You'll read about it in your history book. Right after the chapter on the printing press that Fred operates."
They talked until the plates were clean and the light outside the window faded from gold to deep blue. The sea, which had been a constant background whisper, seemed to grow louder in the dark, a reminder of the new rhythm of their lives.
Later, with the kids getting ready for bed, George stood at the sink, washing the few dishes. Trisha came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back. She could feel the solid, steady beat of his heart.
"It was a good day," she murmured.
He turned in her arms, his hands still wet and soapy. He kissed her forehead. "It was a really good day."